


back (and back) and forth

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crying, Gen, Guilt, Happy Ending, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Grayson, and related return of the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: It was all his fault—he should have been more careful. Richard said not to rush in without more intel. He told Damian to wait, that he’d figure out what to do, how to save the little girl and take out the bad guys, and—And Damian hadn’t listened.Damian doesn't listen on patrol and Dick ends up hurt.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 136





	back (and back) and forth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lookforanewangle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookforanewangle/gifts).



> Written as a thank you for @lookforanewangle for her donation to help out a friend in need. More info can be found on my [tumblr](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/).

Damian pulls his hand closer to his chest. “I can do it.”

The look Pennyworth gives him makes Damian wonder, for a ludicrous second, whether the butler has developed Superman’s x-ray vision. It seems to peel back all his layers and see straight to the raw, ugly mess of anger and betrayal and guilt squirming in Damian’s chest. 

“It’s just a splint, I have treated worse injuries myself,” Damian says. There is an abrasive edge to his voice, one that had been worn down in the years since coming to Gotham, but is now sharpened again by the defensive barricade he slams down on the storm of emotions in his head.

Aged lips press together, but then Pennyworth sets down the supplies on the wheeled table at Damian’s elbow and backs off, busying himself organising things that don’t need to be organised on the other side of the infirmary.

Damian looks down and finds that his hands are shaking. Tremors like aftershocks, rippling through the cracks in his emotions. He takes a deep breath, flattens his hands on blood-stained knees, digs his fingers into unyielding kevlar and tries to centre himself with the pulsing pain. 

They won’t stop shaking. 

Damian squeezes his eyes shut. He can still see Richard lying on the ground, far too still. He can see the blood (far too much of it) and the soot, swirled together like paint on a canvas of too-pale skin.

Even now, blood and soot wiped off, injuries hidden under bandages, his brother is unnaturally still in the infirmary bed. 

When Pennyworth rolls a stool over and picks up his hand, Damian doesn’t protest again. He sits stiffly and lets Pennyworth splint his broken fingers and bandage them together. The middle and ring fingers on his dominant hand, plus a dislocated knuckle on his right thumb. Not debilitating, but enough to keep him off patrol for a few days. 

They don’t talk while Pennyworth works. After Damian’s fingers have been taken care of, Pennyworth moves silently onto cleaning the cut behind his ear—bloody but not bad—and then the one above his eyebrow, covering both with blue waterproof bandaids. Damian doesn’t protest, not even at the fact that the bandaids have tiny Superman shields on them.

Richard must have stocked up the bandaid supplies last, he thinks. He’s always blabbering about how great Big Blue is. It certainly wouldn’t have been Father. 

Pennyworth puts a hand on his shoulder and Damian tenses. He opens his mouth, ready to say... something. Something appropriate to allay the rebuke he knows is coming. The _you should have been more careful_ or _this is all your fault_. Damian doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t _need_ to hear it. But he deserves it. It was all his fault—he should have been more careful. Richard said not to rush in without more intel. He told Damian to wait, that he’d figure out what to do, how to save the little girl and take out the bad guys, and—

And Damian hadn’t listened.

Hadn’t trusted him.

No. He trusts his brother. He _does_. He was just angry. Richard went off to play spy, and Father said he was dead, and Richard just let them believe that. Let _Damian_ believe that. They were supposed to be partners. The dynamic duo. Batman and Robin—even with Richard back in blue now, and Damian working with his father. What kind of partner lied about something as gut-wrenching as their own death?

Not that Damian had acted much like a partner tonight either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s only a whisper, strangled by the tears rushing into his eyes and clogging his throat.

There’s a pause that feels like the inhale before a sigh. Then the hand on Damian’s shoulder squeezes. “You made a mistake,” Pennyworth says, quiet to match Damian’s pitch, voice not carrying beyond the bubble of the infirmary. “I’m sure you won’t make the same one again.”

Damian presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard enough that starbursts of colour pop across his vision. Beneath the disinfectant drenching the room he can still smell blood and the acrid smoke of burning oil, sharp and nauseating on the back of his tongue. 

“Get changed,” Pennyworth says. “I’ll be back shortly with hot cocoa—and I expect that ankle to be elevated when I get back, don’t think I didn’t notice you limping, Master Damian.”

Damian wipes his eyes and running nose on his sleeve, then grimaces at the scratchy feeling of dried blood. His dark sleeves hide it well, but he knows it is there. And he knows where it came from. He can’t _stop_ thinking about where it came from. 

When Pennyworth brings the promised hot cocoa, he can hardly stomach it.

“It’s late,” the butler says. “And you are injured as well. You should get some rest.”

Damian just shakes his head.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep beside the bed, but when he does, his dreams are murky and unpleasant. He jolts awake minutes or hours later and finds that the infirmary is now almost dark, lit only by the dimmed strip of lights above the back cabinets and the zig-zagging lines of the monitor. 

For a moment, Damian isn’t sure what woke him.

Then he sees Richard’s eyes are open, face turned toward him. “Dame…” he rasps. “You’re okay?”

“I am fine.”

His voice is stiff, probably unconvincing, but with the painkillers clouding Richard’s judgement it is enough to make him relax back against the pillow. 

“Good.”

“And I am sorry,” Damian adds—has to add—gaze trained on his brother’s chest so he doesn’t have to see the anger or disappointment on his face. “I did not listen to you and I should have.”

“‘S’okay.”

“It’s not.”

Richard blinks slowly, fuzzy with drugs or pain or both. “You’ll listen next time.”

Unbidden, Damian feels the tears welling up again. They bubble over and slip down his cheeks and he tries to turn away, but he isn’t fast enough to hide them.

“Hey.” Richard reaches out, I.V. making the movement clumsy. “Dami? What’s wrong?”

Damian shakes his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will the tears away, but they just seem to come faster. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. 

“I forgive you,” Richard says instantly. “Dami, it’s okay—”

It’s not okay. Damian almost got him killed.

“I can’t lose you again.”

Richard gets hold of his shirt and tugs him closer; close enough that he can wrap his arms around Damian and pull him into a proper hug. “You didn’t lose me,” he promises. “I’m okay, sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian doesn’t deserve the hug, but he can’t help sinking into it. Richard’s chest is warm and solid and alive. Damian clings and never wants to let go.

“We’re okay,” Richard whispers against his temple, gentle words followed by the press of lips. “Neither of us is going anywhere.”

Damian resolves to make sure that stays true. Richard and Pennyworth are both right: he will listen next time, and he definitely won’t make the same mistake again.


End file.
